… There was excitement in the village. From the morning, the men looked anxiously at the sky, arguing whether the few clouds might herald the sometimes impending storm. It seemed, however, that today the gods favour the inhabitants of a tiny island lost somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. The children focused on the edge of the village, staring at the nearby thickets. Women in festive costumes, singing and giggling, were preparing a feast. Meanwhile, the sun wandered indifferently across the sky, inevitably bringing the ritual to the beginning. The Great Shaman's young helpers had just finished smoothing the sand and were carefully checking the position of the stones bounding the Great Belt when the youngest priest appeared at the edge of the brush. The young people immediately started walking towards him. After a while, pushing and shouting, they started building sacrificial piles from bundles of firewood prepared by the priests. It was getting dark when they finished their work.

The villagers flocked to the beach and chatted, silently commenting on the work of the Belt builders. Then there was a loud rumble of drums in the bushes, drowning out the murmur of conversation. The instrument's deafening convulsions stopped abruptly. There was a silence, which was broken only by the rustle of approaching steps. From the thickening darkness emerged a young priest carrying a torch. One by one he was lighting piles. The fire shot high into the sky. The wood was thoroughly dried, for it had been waiting for this moment for almost a year, hidden in a place known only to priests, in a place where the taboo forbade the uninitiated. As the fire flared up, more priests appeared, spitting out sparks with a crackle. They set up a table at the edge of the belt, on which a mysterious chest proudly reigned, with sparkles twinkling inside. They ceremoniously removed the racks looks like stool-like racks from their backs and sat down at the table. 

They meditated for a moment, then, leaning towards the sticks protruding from the table top, they chanted a prayer song. The villagers were motionless, staring intently into the darkness. Suddenly, the monotonous drone of drums began to break through the singing of the priests. The priests fell silent. Just then, a shirtless man appeared at the beginning of the runway, pulling a long rope woven from palm leaves. The builders of the belt started towards him and, grabbing the rope, began to pull. The whir of the drums penetrated into the highest registers, deafeningly tearing the air above the island, and then from the darkness, majestically, emerged the long-awaited shape: the Bird God Boat.Its great wings were obscured by the stars, and its wheels and keel carved deep furrows in the smooth surface of the Great Belt. Finally, the boat stopped, and God scrambled out of her belly, opening a makeshift door. His body was covered with a suit made of palm leaves, and his head was covered by the Divine Helm.

Its great wings were obscured by the stars, and its wheels and keel carved deep furrows in the smooth surface of the Great Belt. Finally, the boat stopped, and God scrambled out of her belly, opening a makeshift door. His body was covered with a suit made of palm leaves, and his head was covered by the Divine Helm. A long nose grew out of his face, the end of which disappeared in a small box strapped to his belt. Time went back for a moment, and God was with his people again. Everyone fell on their faces, worshipping him …​

     After the Second World War, many small cultures were discovered on the islands of the Pacific, cut off from the rest of the world, performing bizarre, but somewhat familiar, ceremonies. For sensation hunters, they were evidence of a UFO landing, because why in these primitive peoples the need to dress the gods in suits or build vehicles for them almost exactly imitating airplanes? But for anthropologists it was clear, this is how the cargo cult manifests itself. Responsible, of course, were the Americans who built airports on such tiny islands during the war. American soldiers handed out various delicacies to the local population, who treated them like demigods: after all, they had close contact with the flying gods. As the Americans departed, the natives began to follow them so that the bird gods' silver airboats would bring their gifts again. We children of the twentieth century often look down on these half-naked Pacific islanders, for we think our God is purely metaphysical, that we do not practice any primitive cargo rites.

However, our old religion no longer has the same strength as in the times of Vincent Ferrer, who made penitents publicly throw themselves to the ground with his sermons to confess their great sins with tears. We only visit temples to mechanically hammer prayers. We are actually praying to a completely different God. We have the three most important Gods. Their names are Screen, Kinescope and Tabloid. Their temples are Cinema, House and Outhouse. The priests are the Surgeon, Filmmaker and Journalist, and the only sacrifice accepted by these servants of God is money. And just as God's anointed ones were once called Kings, so today we call them Celebrities. Advertisements, or modern psalms, teach us that only by imitating their behaviour can we come closer to our Gods. Only this one is honoured and close to the Gods that Ferrari has. Only this one is beautiful and only this grace will be given by the Gods to whose body the Surgeon has formed. Only those who are adored will be whom the Journalist has to deal with.